


Toss a Meal to Your Witcher

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crying, F/M, Fluff, Food, Geralt loves food, I just want to feed him and care for him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24428482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Oneshots, loosely connected, of feeding Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt of Rivia/You, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 192





	1. Bread

“Don’t you ever miss food?”

Geralt rolled over in bed, tracing a hand down your shoulder. “I miss your food, when I’m away on a hunt,” he rumbled.

You met his amber gaze. “I mean, what do you eat on the road? That awful dried meat stuff. Whatever you can scrounge from taverns here and there. Whatever passes for food.”

He moved a shoulder. “You get used to it.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” You shuffled closer, pressed your face to his chest. He smelled of woodsmoke and the outdoors and just a lick of lemon oil, and it was addicting.

Geralt stroked his fingers through your hair as you breathed him in, and then you had an idea.

“I want to show you something.”

One of his pale brows winged up.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insatiable.”

“Witcher,” he pointed out gruffly, but you heard the smile in his voice. “Comes with the territory.”

You spread your palm over his chest, leaned in to nip at his skin with your teeth. “My territory, now.” Then you sat up. “Out of bed.”

“Hmm,” he muttered, but he sat up anyway, the sheet pooling around his nips. He stood up, naked, and you admired the view for a long moment. Who knew when he’d be back in your bed after tomorrow - he had a kikimora to kill, and then he’d go wherever he was needed, until he’d earned what he judged to be enough coin.

Then he’d come back to your cottage, hair wild and eyes black, the hunt chasing up his veins, and you’d destroy each other for a few days in between eating and sleeping.

“While you were away, I worked on something for you - and you can share with your bard, if you want.”

“Hmm.”

You beckoned him over to the hearth. “I’m going to show you how to make campfire bread. Bread on the road.”

You saw interest pass over Geralt’s face. He loved bread.

Kneeling by the fire, you pulled over your wicker basket of baking supplies and then patted the floor beside you.

Geralt came to sit cross-legged next to you. You glanced over, felt saliva pool in your mouth. “Would you put something _on_?”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he left briefly to tug on some black breeches, leaving his torso bare. It would have to do.

“Right.” You gestured to the fire. The coals were sizzling now, red hot, very little flame rising from them. “The fire needs to be as close to this as possible before you start the bread. You’ll need a bowl, or some sort of container, or one of Jasier’s ridiculous hats, to mix the bread in.”

Pushing the wicker basket towards him, you opened the lid and took out a metal cup, pressing it into his hands as you set a large wooden bowl on the floor. “Measure out two cups of this flour, and one of that.”

He glanced at you, but did as asked. As he leaned forward to the task, you traced with your eyes the long scar on the side of his torso. A cerberus had given him that, when you first met. You’d found him about a half mile from your cottage, Roach nosing at his face, weak from blood loss.

Two years later, and you didn’t know what you’d do if he never came to your door again.

“And now, what?”

“Two pinches of salt-” you offered the salt bowl, and he did as you bid. “And one cup of water.” You reached for the pitcher you kept near the fire, poured. Geralt transferred the liquid and without being asked, started to knead.

You watched his hands, thinking idly about those hands on your body. When he touched you, when he was gentle, and when - at your pleading - he was rough. When he came back to you with midnight black eyes and torn clothes, his breathing ragged and his need for you razor-sharp. When he pushed you up against the wall and tore your skirts, and the long sigh he gave you when you were finally joined, his softly muttered _fuck,_ all the little things that told you that his home was no longer a place, but a person.

“And now?”

“And now you shape it into a ball -” you dusted his hands with flour first - “and set it directly on the coals.”

“Nothing else?” he eyed the loaf skeptically.

“If you’ve a little rosemary or thyme, then add that. Honey, maybe.”

Geralt scoffed. “If I’ve honey I’ll put it on the bread after it bakes.”

“Fair point,” you allowed.

He caught your gaze. “Or better, I’ll save it to eat off you when I get back. From whichever mystical place I’ve managed to get honey from.” He shook his head a little, and sadness clenched at your heart. You wanted the best things for Geralt, always. A soft bed, warm hands, tender kisses. The sharpest sword, the finest ale.

And when you had those things, you made sure he got them. He would only ever know kindness and warmth and welcome from you.

The bread started to bake on the coals, the smell of the flour cooking reaching your noses.

“Smell that?”

“Hmmm.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, sighed. You’d miss him so, when he left again, when the forest swallowed up the sound of Roach’s hooves and then later, you’d miss him again, when your mattress lost the scent of him. “You only make that noise when you know I’m right.”

“ _Hmmmmm_.”


	2. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt x food one shot #2

Your ground rosemary up in a pestle and mortar, the birds crying out for dawn as you worked. You wanted to be up early, to make a surprise for the Witcher you felt was on his way to you.

As the herbs started to release their sweet, heady fragrance, the welcome sound of horse’s hooves reaching your ears.

Soon after, the door creaked, and you turned to see Geralt silhouetted in the doorway, hair wild, amber eyes dark.

He murmured your name and you stopped your task, crossing the room to him. He caught you in his arms, crushing you to him. The leather straps of his sword back scabbard pressed into your chest but you welcomed the tiny hurt.

You breathed him in - the tang of lemon oil, his usual earthy scent, and just a whiff of clean soap.

Nipping at his jaw, you frowned. “You bathed without me.”

Geralt arched a brow. “I thought it might be a nice change not to show up with kikimora in my hair, or selkiemore guts on my chin.”

“I’ve started to look forward to washing them off you.”

He sighed into your hair. “I’ve bought something else you can wash off me.” Digging into the pack at his waist, he pulled out a little fired clay jar. “I found a mystical place, after all.”

Your eyes widened and you grasped it from his palm. “Real honey! Did you have to kill someone to get it?”

“No, but it cost me half a pouch of coin. You’d better make it good,” he rumbled.

“Oh, I  _ will _ .” With the honey clasped close to your heart, you skipped across the rushes-strewn floor to your mortar and pestle.

Geralt stood in the doorway, looked unimpressed.

“What?” you asked over your shoulder, dipping your finger in the honey, sucking it off, delighted. 

“This is the part where you get undressed. At least, in my imagination.”

“Oh, this is going to be  _ better  _ than that! Sit down.”

He grumbled something that sounded like  _ hmmmm _ , and settled into the chair you kept by the fire. You looked at it fondly for a moment - you and Geralt had enjoyed quite the evening in that chair, soon after he’d started visiting you.

You started to set our flour, butter, and everything else you’d need, making up a rough pastry.

Meanwhile, you heard the clank and drop of armour and leathers as Geralt made himself comfortable. It was cold outside yet. Spring still had all its teeth and although the sun shone brightly, you kept the fire going until around midday.

As you folded and kneaded, you heard the sound of soft snoring and glanced over, amused, to see Geralt asleep in the big chair.

By the time you’d finished shaping the dough, the clay oven in the back of the cottage was ready. You hefted the hammered tin tray and slid it in, using several rags to protect your hands.

Then you crept over to the dozing Witcher, hooked one leg over his lap, and settled yourself. By your reckoning, you had just enough time.

Geralt stirred as you peppered kisses over his jaw and neck, smoothing your hands over his broad chest, the much-worn and washed linen of his black shirt butter-soft under your palms. You slowly rucked the shirt up in your hands, tugging it free of his belt. The material was billowy, so you easily fit your head under it, nipping and kissing his chest, mapping his broadness, each scar, relishing the feel of his heart beating.

You felt the moment he woke up, his hands moving to your behind, cupping and squeezing. “Minx,” he uttered in that deep baritone, and you responded by letting your hand play below his belt, stroking along the already hard bulge there.

Geralt pushed your skirts up impatiently, growling low in his throat when you freed him from his breeches, hard and hot and ready.

He put those talented hands to good use, touching you in  _ just  _ the right way, driving you to madness, your body straining towards his fingers as he slid one, then two inside you, thumb circling where you were most sensitive.

The smell of honeyed pastry wound towards you as your orgasm peaked, and you gasped into Geralt’s mouth. He lifted your hips, positioning you, and then slid in right to the hilt, making you breath his name in surprise and pleasure.

Neither of you lasted long. The chair rocked and squeaked, Geralt ground his pelvis against yours in just the right way, and you saw stars as you clenched hard around him. Dimly you heard his quiet “ _ fuck _ ,” as he spilled into you, teeth grazing your shoulder.

When you heartbeat slowed, you hopped off his lap. “Pastries!”

“Hmmm?” he grunted, surprised, still reeling from the orgasm. He laced his breeches and stood just as you clanged the roasting tray on your worksurface, using a wooden spatula to slide the treats off. “That smells…. Like something a King would eat.”

You laughed, curtsying. “Well then my lord - what are you waiting for?”

Geralt crossed the room as you prised the soft, flaky pastry apart with your hands and used a metal spoon to drizzle honey inside, along with a little pat of butter. The piping hot, golden pastry made short work for the butter, melting it with the honey. You offered the makeshift sandwich to the Witcher.

He eyed it suspiciously, but then took it from you, taking a bite.

You saw the moment his eyes rolled back in his head.

“You  _ made  _ this? With flour?” He was used to coarse bread, made edible by dipping in stew. “How many do you have?”

“Enough,” you smiled, drizzling honey over your own steaming, buttery pastry. “I’ll make these again, then?”

Geralt made a sound you’d only ever heard from his lips when his cock was in your mouth. “Fuck, yes.”


	3. Peaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fruit, and naughty ways to eat it.

You’re out at the market when Geralt arrives at your cottage, you can scent him before you cross the threshold. You set the bags down at the door to find him sprawled out on your bed. He looks exhausted.

You cross the room and smooth a hand over his forehead. He stirs briefly, and then begins to snore again.

No matter, you’ll have a surprise prepared for him when he wakes, you think, cheekily, very pleased with yourself.

You get busy preparing and chopping all the food you bought at the market. It cost you several coins, but you’d been saving, and seeing Geralt’s reaction to the food you’d made him made the cost  _ very  _ worthwhile.

The Witcher had a heart way deeper than his pockets, too, he often left you some housekeeping coin. You’d refused it at first, but then, his visits became more frequent, and feeding a man of his sheer size was getting very expensive on your herbalist’s wage.

Geralt stirs as the fruit you’d cut started to leak its sweet, syrupy juices. You took a big pite of the succulent flesh of the peach, chewing as you cross the room.

The big Witcher opens his eyes, amber through the lens of a night’s sky, as you climb on the bed and straddle him, bending to touch your lips to his. It’s been two weeks since he’s been in your bed, between your thighs, and you’ve missed him - emotionally, physically - in every which way.

“Hmmm,” he murmurs in approval as your tongues touch, and he draws back in surprise. “Gods, what  _ is _ that taste?”

You kiss him again, deeper, licking into his mouth. “Peach. Want some more?”

“I want to eat it from your mouth,” he says, his voice dropping half an octave.

You rake your gaze down him, armour and all. “Take off your clothes first, Witcher.”

The corner of his mouth tips up and you slide off him - feeling the press of his hardened cock as you do so - to fetch more fruit.

You slide the cut morsels into a shallow wooden bowl and bring it to the bed with you. Setting it on the mattress, you slip out of your clothes, piling them on the floor, uncaring of where they fall.

When you clamber back on the bed, Geralt is fully undressed, hair wild on the pillow, cock heavy and curved against his belly. You glance over and see his armour and clothes in a pile on the other side of the bed - you’ve started to think of it as  _ his _ side, and you find that you don’t mind, in any way.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, taking another bite of fruit, blueberries this time, a small handful, and as you lean and kiss him, you let the juice drip from your lips and on to his jaw and neck, coating him in sweet, blue liquid.

Geralt groans in appreciation. “Woman,” he growls, “how long have you had this witchcraft in your repertoire?”

“A while,” you grin, licking the blueberry juice from his skin. “It tastes better off you,” you tease. “My my. I’m hungry, I think I’ll have some more.”

You repeat the process, taking a few bites of strawberry, chewing, and then feeding him the sweet, juicy mush through a kiss. He takes greedily from you, groaning the way he usually does when you ride him in the light of the moon.

Once again you use the flat of your tongue to drink the remaining juice from his skin.

“And now I think… a difference plate.”

You sink your teeth into a ripe nectarine, the sweetness making your tongue dance, and feed some to Geralt before kissing the juice on to his chest, then licking it off.

He arches his back, giving you better access to his broad, naked chest, and when you look up, he seems wrecked, covered in trails of fruit juice, pupils blown with lust.

“More,” is all he says, and you nod.

Over the course of the next half hour, you feed him, from your lips, raspberry, pomegranate, ripe, fragrant oranges, and silky plums, then drizzle the juice over his body, using him as the most decadent plate you’ve ever had.

His hands fist in your hair as you worship his body - licking fruit juice from his scars, the ancient ones and the newer ones, the ones that are still sensitive and the ones he now barely notices. They’re all part of him, and you’d never change him. To you, he is nothing short of perfection. The first time you told him that. Geralt rolled his eyes, but he’s starting to laugh less, now, to think that maybe, you could love him.

And you could.

You do.

“More,” he gasps greedily, and you take a bite of plum in your mouth and feed it to him as you straddle him, sliding down on his cock oh, so slowly.

You both sigh when he is fully seated, and the scent of cut, juicy fruit hangs in the air as you ride him. Geralt’s lips are stained pink from the fruit juices and you kiss his painted mouth, widening your legs as he lifts one thigh to hit the deepest spot inside you.

“ _ Fuck, _ I can never get enough of you,” he groans deeply, and flips your bodies so you’re sprawled beneath him. He nips at your neck and settles his hands on your thighs, encouraging you to wrap them tightly around him. The new angle pushes his pelvis against your clit, and he rocks against you as you cry out, the orgasm explosive. You bite into his shoulder, tasting peach, as he cries out, too, and spills deeply inside you.

He lays heavily on top of you for four breaths, and you drink him in, sticky with fruit juice and smelling of sex, and it’s honestly  _ heaven. _

“You need a bath, Witcher,” you tease, patting his buttocks. “Let’s clean you off so I can dirty you up again.”

Geralt smiles into your neck. “I live to serve humanity.”


	4. Home Comforts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Tumblr request for more feeding Geralt!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read - we die like men.

Roach’s whinny wakes you from your nap, and you sit up to see Geralt coming through the door. He looks wrecked, battered, eyes black from residual potion, his shoulders and back stiff, his mouth a thin, firm line.

You get up from your chair by the fire and cross to him. “Geralt?”

He stands stock still for a moment, looking but not seeing, and then he brushes past you to your bed, unlacing his armour and letting it fall, then laying down on the mattress wordlessly.

“Are you hungry?”

“Hmm.”

_ This is not good. _

You perch on the edge of the bed, stroke back his hair. His eyes are slowly returning to their enchanting amber shade.

“What happened, on the hunt?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time, and you tell yourself to be content with that, just breathing him in, the twinning scents of lemon oil and fresh earth.

Finally he says, staring at the ceiling, “I couldn’t save the child.”

Your heart sinks. Deep inside, Geralt really thought the world needed him, that he could save everyone, everything,  _ fix _ everything, if only he tried hard enough, gave enough.

And your heart simply bled for him that he couldn’t, and it would never be his fault, but that wasn’t how the world worked.

The world wasn’t kinder to you because you wanted to save it.

“Oh, Geralt,” you murmur, laying down beside him, snuggling your head into the hollow of his shoulder, listening to his heart beat. “What happened?”

For a long moment his chest just rises and falls, but then he starts to speak.

“The manticore was in its death throes. I’d partially drowned it, and it was weakening. I didn’t see the child run in after the puppy -  _ fuck, _ I hadn’t seen the puppy at all. And then when I did see, it was too late.”

His hands ball into fists. “They chased me from the town.”

“Oh,  _ Geralt. _ ”

This was his curse. People needed Witchers more than they would ever know, in their safe, mundane little lives.

“Did they even pay you?” you whisper.

“Didn’t want their coin. I may have killed the manticore, but I also took the life of a child.” He turns on his side, away from you, and your head hits the empty pillow with a soft  _ thunk. _

You stare at his back, rigid under the dirty, worn white shirt.

You couldn’t soothe him with words, but you could with food.

You sit up as his breathing evens out. He must have been exhausted and you’d bet good coin that those townsfolk hadn’t fed him.

He softly snores and you glance out of the window to see Roach nibbling at the grass. A soft rain has started to fall.

You set out your mortar and pestle, and get your cutting board and knives. By the time the Witcher wakes, you have his favourite stew on the fire, the aroma of garlic, rosemary, black pepper and partridge meat filling the small space of your home.

Geralt sits up, his face still a study in misery, but he looks a bit brighter.

You scoop three generous ladles of stew into a bowl and carry it to the bed. “Hungry now?”

He grunts, which you take as assent. His face is still set in unhappy lines as you stir the stew. “I made your favourite.”

He sighs deeply, his huge shoulders rising and falling. “Why do you tolerate me in your home?”

You almost drop the bowl in surprise. “What? It’s been two years and you ask me that now?  __ You mean I could have got rid of you  _ before? _ ”

He doesn’t smile at your teasing, looking away.

“Geralt.” You set the stew down and cup his chin, his stubble tickling your palm pleasantly. “If I did not want you here, believe me, you would not be here. Now, eat.”

Like a little boy or an invalid, he obediently opens his mouth, but when you put the spoon in, he can’t contain a little growl of pleasure.

“It’s good, see?” you prompt.

He chews, swallows, and sighs, some colour coming back into his starkly handsome face. “You’re too good for this world, little wren.”

You smile and feed him more stew, thinking that it’s him that is too pure for this pigshit world, but he will give it his all, anyway.

  
  
  
  
  



	5. Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A request from Tumblr - reader keeps a certain food although she hates it, because Geralt loves it.

Tiny motes of dust danced in the sunshine streaming through your cottage’s open window. You cleaned out your cupboard, wiping surfaces down and humming a tune to yourself, while Geralt sat on your bed, his armour piled nearly beside him, cleaning his weapons with lemon oil.

The companionable silence made your heart happy. Two years he’d been visiting you now, between hunts, and if he stopped, you honestly weren’t sure what you’d do.

How you’d cope.

But, he still lived, and as long as he sought sanctuary in your arms, you would take whatever he offered.

Geralt set down the huge sword that now gleamed in the afternoon sun, crossing to the table you’d piled everything on as you cleaned.

He idly picked up something wrapped in wax paper. “Is this what I think it is?”

You grinned at the confusion on his broad, handsome face. “It is.”

Geralt opened the paper the tiniest modicum and breathed in the scent. “Little Wren, you hate this. You swore it would never cross your threshold again.”

“I did.” And you still hated the stink of the cured venison slices. But Geralt had devoured them like the finest honey in any continent, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him never tasting it again.

You always wanted the best for him. The sharpest sword - the better to survive with. The purest ale - the better to slake his thirst. The softest bed, to make up for every night he spent camped out on the frosty ground, only a single fur to shield him from the elements.

“But you loved it,” you added. “So I bought more, when the trader came through, four nights ago.”

Geralt’s amber gaze lifted to yours. “It’s costly,” he murmured.

Your smile faltered. Was he not pleased. “It’s my coin. If I want to spend it on you, I will.” You turned away, blinking suddenly wet eyes.

“Oh, my Little Wren.” He rounded the cupboard doors and took you in his arms, tipping your chin up. “I would never wish to be your master. No man could ever earn that privilege. I just wish you’d keep your coin for…. Your own wants.”

You gazed into his golden eyes, stroking your thumb along his lip. “You  _ are _ all I want.”

Something akin to awe flickered over his face, and he growled low in his throat, dropping his mouth to yours, kissing you greedily. You gasped as he licked into your mouth, and in a hot second you’d dropped the rag you were cleaning with to fist your hands in his soft, thick hair, keeping his mouth on yours, sighing his name against his lips.

“ _ Geralt. _ Say you’ll always come back to me.”

“I swear, as long as there is blood running hot in my veins, I am yours alone,” he vowed, and your heart simply turned over. You keened into his mouth, and he lifted you, turning so your back rested against the cottage’s far wall, and you wrapped your legs around his hips, one hand reaching between your clothed bodies to unlace his breeches.

Gerlt’s breathing came thick and fast as you palmed him greedily, drinking in his low moan as he kissed up your neck. You tilted your head to give him better access, and he used one hand to push up your skirts. You were naked beneath, and when he looked at you in surprise, you winked. “I’ve learned a thing or two about your appetites, Witcher.”

He chuckled, but it turned into a hiss of breath when you started to drag the swollen head of him through your wet folds, back and forth, circling over your clit, giving you the stimulation you craved. Geralt leaned you back, adjusting so he could suck your nipples, one at a time, through the thin cloth of your tunic. The fabric was worn, a little rough, the abrasion of the material making pleasure zing through you.

He made little noises of satisfaction every time you bucked against him, every time your breath hitched at the pass of him through your slick heat, and it only made the fire between you burn hotter.

“Now, now,” you pleaded, as your pleasure peaked, and your internal muscles spasmed as he slid into you, slowly at first, then building a faster rhythm as you linked your hands behind his neck and held on as he fucked you into the wall.

You groaned his name and he scraped his teeth over your neck. You welcomed the tiny hurt, loved it when he marked you before he went away, happy to be claimed as his.

“Can’t-” Geralt managed to get out, and then he came inside you, hips thrusting frantically. As he climaxed, he held on to you with one strong arm, the other sliding down to thumb over your clit, spiralling you to a second, dizzying peak.

Slowly, your heartbeats returned to normal, and you sighed into his shoulder. “I love you, Geralt.”

He huffed out a happy laugh. “I know. Why else would you allow that venison in your house?”

  
  
  
  



	6. Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is very distracting.

You chopped diligently, the sound of birdsong a lovely soundtrack to the meal prep. One of Geralt’s favourites, pheasant pie. Although you didn’t rate your own cooking too highly to be honest, Geralt said it was fit for a king, but he and Jaskier often ate dried jerky for days on end, sometimes punctuated by a sloppy stew stirred too often by a bored tavern cook.

The few times you saw Jaskier, he always asked for food to take with them. You gladly obliged. Wouldn’t do for your lover and his favourite bard to die on the road.

The door opened with a soft creak and you turned to see Geralt’s silhouette filling the rectangular hollow.

“Little wren,” he called out.

“I’m here.”

You heard him dump his pack and then his armour in the space he now habitually used. You’d made a wooden box some time ago for his accoutrements and your home somehow seemed empty when his things didn’t populate the space.

He crossed your space almost silently and then you felt his front, warm to your back, as he bent and kissed your neck.

“Hmmm - what is that _smell_?”

You felt his wince against your skin. “Evidently, I didn’t wash well enough. Manticore guts.”

You elbowed him - not that he felt it, made of iron as he was - and commanded: “Wash more if you want to eat.”

“Your wish is my command,” he murmured silkily, and you forced yourself to stay focused on the task at hand as he slipped through the rear door where you kept your bathing equipment.

The sounds of fabric being swept off his body, straps being unbuckled, and water sluicing made the place between your legs ache.

By the time you heard him re-dressing, you had started to make the pastry. The scent of Geralt’s lemon and rosemary soap drifted to you on the air as you rolled the dough out, breathing in the rich scent of butter and sage.

“Better?” he asked, dropping a kiss under your ear. “Am I sweetly scented enough to prove a proper distraction?”

You leaned into his touch. His hands settled on your hips and he began to lazily butt up against you. 

“How hungry are you?” you asked, only half interested in the answer.

He growled low in his throat, the husky timbre of his voice making you weak. “For food, little wren? Or for a taste of you?”

You let your head fall back, only paying little mind to the pastry now. “I missed you.”

He nipped at your neck. It would leave a mark, but you welcomed it. At the market, others whispered that you were the Witcher’s whore, but they’d never touch you. If they did, who would they go to for their healing potions, for their intimate aids, for their poultices and wraps?

You wanted to be marked by him.

Your inner muscles clenched as Geralt’s hand slid down your body and bunched up your skirts, feeling beneath the heavy material.

“Expecting me, little one?” he breathed, when he found you lacking underwear.

“It’s hot.”

“Yes.” He slid a finger over your clit. “It is.” And one inside you. You clenched your muscles around him. You gripped the edge of your worktable, dinner all but forgotten.

“Please.”

He softly bit at the curve where your neck and shoulder met. “Dreamed of taking you here, little wren. Hard nights on the road are made bearable by thoughts of sinking into your sweet body. Losing myself.” He bunched up your skirts at your back and you heard the sound of his belt releasing. Beyond caring about the food, you stood up on your tiptoes and held your breath as he sank inside you.

You both groaned as he seated himself fully, one hand still circling your swollen cit. He thrust in and out, setting a steady pace that made a mewling noise rise from your throat.

“Come for me, little one,” he murmured in your ear. “How I’ve waited to hear you pant my name.”

You do, and you do, your muscles fluttering around his cock, clenching tightly as he presses down just _there_ , and he follows you not long after, biting off a curse as he spills.

Geralt kisses the top of your head as he pulls out and rearranges your skirts.

You lean heavily on the table.

“Now can I get back to dinner?” you ask, faux annoyed.

Geralt smiles slowly, a glint in his eye. “Yes. And then perhaps we’ll have each other for dessert.”


End file.
